


What's It Feel Like To Be A Ghost?

by Potofpetunias



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Gen, RvB Reverse Big Bang, Serious Injuries, sharkface redemption arc, sharkface redemption arc?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 10:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12769080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potofpetunias/pseuds/Potofpetunias
Summary: Once, a man named Terry took a mission with his family. Protect the Subcommittee Chairperson and his interests. They did not know at the time that their service would be redacted, that they would become mercenaries for his corporate interests. Terry hardly cared, he was after all, with his family.What becomes of a man when his family is taken away?





	What's It Feel Like To Be A Ghost?

He wakes just before the building comes down. Pries open his eyes against the dull ache in his skull. The room is on fire and he has to get out, now. The smoke is seeping through his helmet filters and he can feel it building in the back of his throat. He is burning inside his armor. Before he can move, the room shakes, a boom cutting through everything and he falls.

He wakes again to pain. He is pinned, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Blood runs down over his eyes, hot and thick. His helmet is gone or broken. The fires burn around him, beneath him and the air is choked with dust. He is burning, he thinks. Trapped and aflame and alone.

The third time he wakes is to white walls, hovering faces and a thick wad of bandage across one side of his face. Despite the resistance of his muscles and the sour edge of painkillers in his dry mouth, he smiles. His family is here.  
“You’re an unkillable motherfucker, aren’t you?” Girly grins, eyes red and wet.  
“So they tell me,” he croaks and winces and the sound of his own voice. “How long was I out?”  
“A week. They had to induce a coma and basically rebuild your entire skeleton. You’re more metal than man now.” Mike says, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes plastered on. His hand is tight around Cory’s. It looks like it might almost hurt, if he could feel it through the medicinal fog. He reaches his free hand to his face and feels the padded covering.  
“Yeah, you’re gonna have some scarring. They don’t know if they can save your left eye, but they’re gonna try. Could only improve your ugly mug, I said.” Girly said, tone too soft for the joke to match.  
“No kidding. Did we win? Did we get those technicolor fucks?” He curled his lip as much as he could.  
“No. They got the engineer and the codes. Fuck knows what they want with it, but Hargrove is pissed. Threatened to burn us all, sell us out to the UNSC if we don’t stop letting those Freelancers ‘make a fool of him.’ We fucked ‘em up though, pretty sure Johns took out one of ‘em.”  
“Yeah? Good going. We’ll get ‘em all. Rogue motherfuckers.” His last word dissolves into a yawn and he can feel the fog in his head thickening. “Get ‘em all.”  
“C’mon, guys, let’s give him some more time to rest. We’ve got a mission in the morning.”  
They linger, and he fights to stay awake, but soon he and Mike are the only ones left in the room.  
“Wish I could be there to watch your back.” Terry grumbles, slowly falling back into sleep.  
“I know. Just rest, we’ll be back on the field together in no time.” With one last squeeze of his hand, Mike pushes to his feet and leaves.

They do not see each other again.

 

* * *

 

Physical therapy is hard and slow. His doctors tell him to be patient, but he doesn’t want to be patient. He wants vengeance. It eats at him, a wriggling, living thing in his chest. It demands payment in blood, his or theirs.  
The work of it smooths the edges, lets him forget that he hasn’t seen or heard from anyone but his doctors for weeks. He tries, a few times, to push a meeting with his employer, the elusive head honcho of Charon Industries to no avail.  
‘He will speak with you when he is able,’ the armored soldiers in his recovery ward tell him. Prick.  
So he works, and when sleep eludes him, nightmares of burning and choking and dying all over again, he stalks the bathrooms. He paces the empty, metal rooms and halls and glares and the slowly knitting scar tissue across his face. He hates it and it suits him.He can feel the rage inside him, all the time, searing his insides. It burns, but the fires are banked. He cannot wait to join his family on the battlefield and exact his revenge.  
And then that future is yanked away.

He heads into PT one morning, ready to force his body closer to readiness, but he is stopped by a man in sharp pressed dress blues.  
“Private? Control is waiting for you.”  
“Bout fucking time,” he growls, back stiffening as he turns to follow the officer. Why now? Had he just gotten fed up with the constant asking? He wouldn’t be field ready for another month, if his doctors were to be believed.

Malcom Hargrove glowered at him for the video screen in the dim room. He did not appear to be the type of man who ever smiled, the lines on his face etched deeply into a permanent scowl.  
“I am afraid I do not have good news for you, Terrance. I deeply regret to inform you of the total loss of your team at the hands of Project Freelancer.”  
The words hit like a Warthog to the gut. Total loss. All of them. He was alone. Hargrove continued speaking, but he could not hear, the words lost in the rising red that consumed his senses. Someone was screaming. He was burning again. He clawed at the releases on his helmet, desperate for air, to clear the rushing in his ears. He did not realize until they began to drag him away that he had fallen to his knees.  
Later, after he had stopped screaming, he sat in his thin hospital issued bunk and stared at the white walls, the chairs where they had sat and joked and waited for him to wake up.  
No time at all.

The psych ward is smaller than the recovery ward and more crowded. The walls glared a dull yellow and the halls were filled with the sounds of screaming and sobbing at all hours. He had been relegated here after they had found him wandering the halls bleeding from a reopened wound on his forehead with no memory of how he got there. He swore it must have been sleepwalking, but the doctors worried he was experiencing a break. So here he was, among the others driven to the brink by the ravages of war.  
When they came to tell him that he was being discharged from military service, he was enraged. The fires burning inside his skull flared and he tried to strangle the sharply dressed officer before he was dragged down by orderlies. They kept him sedated for a while after that, drifting in and out of a foggy haze that made it hard to pin down time. The nightmares came and he could not escape them. He was allowed brief moments of clarity, flickering to his senses long enough for the doctors to tell him his ptsd made him dangerous. He was a killing machine and they feared for his safety and the safety of those around him. He needed help, he needed treatment.  
They didn’t understand, what he needed was vengeance. With his family gone, all he had was the promise that he could make those responsible pay for his losses. He was alone, and he would make them suffer for it. If they made him leave, took his armor and his weapons and told him to let those sane enough to fight handle it, he would burn to ashes in the waiting. He needed out.  
No matter the cost.  
They took their time bringing him back to his room most days, although he was usually still pretty out of it when they did so. Today was different. His body felt strong and his mind felt clear. He waited, quietly, feeling the flames inside him licking at his bones. Then, when the orderly turned to grab his IV, he struck.  
He moved as he hadn’t in what felt like years, sweeping around and jamming the needle into the side of the poor man’s neck. He needed to move, get his armor if it was still here and leave. Find those that did this, all of them, and make them burn. The orderly, Tom his name was TOm, batted weakly at his arms as the drugs took effect and Terry shoved his slackening body to the floor.  
He sprinted through the halls, searching for the rooms where they kept patient items. Something, anything to give him a clue to the location of his armor. When the lights turned red and the alarms blared, he knew his time was running out. As he crossed another wide hallway, he saw movement and froze. A flash of bald head, a crisp suit. Him.  
Hargrove.  
All thoughts of escape or his armor left him, fleeing from the overwhelming rage that screaming to the forefront of his mind. This man held just as much responsibility as the bastards who pulled the trigger. Running them like his own personal attack dogs and then abandoning them at his earliest convenience.  
He would be the first.  
Terry roared, charging the man and his ring of security personnel. They turned and swept their gun barrels at him but he was fast and before they could pull the trigger he had clenched his hand around Hargroves neck.  
No sooner had he sunk his hand into the soft, yielding flesh of the man’s throat did he feel electric fire searing through his nervous system. He dropped, releasing the object of his rage on his way to the cold tiled floor.  
“I believe we have found the source of the alarm.” said the cold accented voice, slightly hoarse from Terry’s grip. “Hit him again.”  
And Terry’s world went black.

The halls of the UNSC Tartarus are cold and black as the space surrounding them. The jeers of the other prisoners echoed around him, mingling with his footsteps and those of the guards. He did not care. They could scream as long as they liked. Not a one of them could go toe to toe with him and he didn’t expect any of them would get a chance.  
Not even a trial, or a court martial. Just that slimy bastard peering down his nose and commanding that he be tossed into the deepest, darkest hole they could find. Well, here it was, solitary on a deep space prison freighter. Fine.  
If any of them honestly thought this would hold him and the vengeance back from those who deserved it, they were dead wrong. His fire would be banked, nurtured. It was his purpose, his mission, his all encompassing rage.  
For he was still burning and they would all burn with him.

 

* * *

 

When the mercs came, he almost thought it was a joke. Some new sadism from the universe, offering him a chance, a ray of hope to extinguish. He was tempted to remain sitting in the dark of his solitary cell, wait and see what these new assholes were up to, but then…  
“...badass freelancer agents…”  
Could it be? A real chance at his vengeance, to break free of this horrible endless nothing?  
He barely notices the vacuum when it yawns behind him, the roar a pitiful match for the one that has started in his chest.  
They will burn.

The days that follow are a whirlwind of activity, especially overwhelming after the almost lethargic pace of life on the Tartarus. He is outfitted with scrap armor and left in the...care of the man calling himself Counselor. His incessant questions, so innocuous on the surface, are almost enough to get him strung up as warning. Stay out of my head. But it’s almost too easy to turn them back on him, sending him flustered and uncomfortable from the room.  
“Would you kill ‘em?”  
The look of discomfort is so perfect he wants to frame it, that smug self-satisfied tone all but gone.  
“If it meant getting my life back, I would.” The conviction in the smaller man’s voice, his very frame would be intimidating on someone who knew how to use it. It’s almost impressive.  
“Hm...well, then.” Terry...no, Sharkface. Terry died in that shitty hospital all those years ago. Sharkface snaps his carefully painted helmet on, feeling whole for the first time on so long.  
“I guess you belong here after all.”  
He relishes the defeated look of self-loathing on the Counselor’s face for only a moment. His battle rifle needs a coat of paint to match the rest of his armor. He doesn’t have much longer before showtime, after all.

The AI and the simulation troopers give them everything they need and more. Hell, he figures if he lets them talk long enough, maybe they’ll hand him the planet on silver platter.  
And then they do.  
First, these morons. Then the Freelancer freaks.  
Then every living soul on this filthy fucking mudball.  
He almost wishes he could see their faces when they pop out of the shadows. The bubble shield is annoying but if Price’s intel was right, it shouldn’t hold for too much longer. She’s right there, the rest of her pathetic friends are marching into a meat grinder and once her shield drops, he’ll have her right where he wants her.  
But it’s going to have to wait.  
As he sneers out his last insult, “Cause you won’t be seeing them again.” he moves for his Falcon. As he gets moving, he considers for moment taking off on his own. The key to end the world is so close he can almost taste it and he cannot breathe for the excitement that brings. But he’ll need back up. So he keys in to the channel that links up to Locus and Felix.  
“Locus, Felix. I've got some news that's gonna make your day.”  
Once the last of those freelancer fucks were in the ground, there was only one piece of unfinished business on his plate. But that’s a tomorrow problem.

The air is icy chill in the mountains to the east but he can barely feel it. The fire dancing in his bones is an inferno now, so close to his victory. It’s almost enough to ignore Felix being a colossal dick.  
Almost.  
“Is he always like that?”  
“Eh, you just kinda learn to tune it out.”  
In almost exactly the amount of time it takes Sharkface to think of all the different ways he’d like to watch Felix die, here comes the asshole.  
“Goddammit!”  
“What, magic words not working? Did you try please?”  
“Oh ho ho, I swear to god Fishbreath, I am going to make you regret that almost as much as whatever asshole grabbed the key before me. But first, we’ve got company out here that needs to be dealt with. Think you can handle that, Sharky?”  
With a growl, Sharkface turned to move out. Behind him, Felix shouted “They’re here! Spread out and find them now!”  
Sharkface stalked slowly down the mountain, listening for something, anything to let him know where his prey was hiding. And then, there they were. Still alive and as loud and obvious as before.He carefully made his way up onto the ledge above them and waited. It didn’t take long for the Freelancer to notice him.  
He regarded her as the other Sim troopers babbled. Her gun was cocked, and she looked ready to run. Couldn’t have that.  
“I underestimated you,” he said finally.  
“We get that a lot,” was the smug reply, followed swiftly by a quick burst of fire. IT was too easy to reach up and block them with the hardlight shield he’d picked up from the mercs. He smirked inside his helmet, remembering the intel he’d gotten from the so called Counselor. Price said she was competitive to the point of losing focus on her actual goal. Time to test that theory.  
“Seems we're both looking for the same man. Bet you I find him first.” As he finished speaking, he dashed off, headed away from the bulk of the search. Fuck Felix, fuck the key, fuck this whole stupid planet, he was on the verge of catharsis. The inferno in his bones sang as he ran, pulling Carolina further afield and into her doom.  
The song was abruptly replaced by the thump of his blood in his ears as Carolina caught up with him, sending a heavy punch into the side of his head. She was fast, he had to give her that as he stumbled from the hit. She followed up with a pair of kicks that sent him flying back onto his ass.  
The bitch could fight, he’d give her that. He could hear her self congratulatory tone and the whining of her AI as he struggled back up. Now she was the one doing the underestimating, walking away before they’d even started. He grabbed her battle rifle off her back and delivered a kick to the small of her back that dropped her to the ground. She rolled to face him as he advanced on her, ignoring the tinny exclamation from her little lite-brite pal.  
“You’re very efficient at administering pain, Carolina, but pain is something I’ve learned to live with.” He tossed her gun away, eyes fixed on her as she scrambled backward against the rock. He wished, not for the first time, that he could see her face. The fear in her eyes would make this so much sweeter.  
She was barely on her feet before he lunged for her, throwing a sweep toward her feet. She sprang backward, lashing out with a kick toward his ribs that glanced off his arm. He responded in kind only for her to duck under his leg. He spun, keeping her in front of him, and was rewarded with a series of jabs to his front that he blocks handily. She uses her momentum to slam her fist into his helmet though and sends him reeling back. A laugh bubbles out of him as he snaps back toward her, blocking another series of sharp little punches directed at his center mass. He bashes the front of her helmet and manages to get a grunt for his trouble.  
She’s telegraphing her every move, he thinks as he ducks a roundhouse kick and pops up inside her space, shoving her away. Getting very sloppy.  
That bit of confidence costs him, as she catches his next swing. He feels his joints straining as she twists his arm away and smacks the side of her hand into his windpipe. The Kevlar protects some, but the breath is suddenly gone from his lungs and he al most vomits inside his helmet. The spin she send him into does not help, a jab to the face and finally a kick that dislocates his shoulder with a pop and a feeling of something deep in his muscles tearing. A grunt of pain slips between his gritted teeth and he slowly pushes himself up.  
Carolina is muttering to herself as she stands over him, no doubt chit chatting with her AI. Fucking Freelancer, can’t even stay in the fight, too distracted by shiny lights. He pushes to his feet, right arm dangling uselessly at his side.  
“You Freelancers sure love your gadgets, but it’s a step in the right direction.” He kept his tone light, to drive home what he meant. He shoved his arm back in it’s socket, wincing only a little at the grind of bone on bone.  
“Who are you?” Carolina asks, unable to place him. How can she not know? Has she killed so many, ruined so many lives that she cannot remember her greatest sins?  
He tells her only the truth. “Your past come back to haunt you.”  
She lunges, but this time he’s faster and he catches her leg before she can hit him. A series of hits land before she catches him in a block.  
“What did I ever do to you?” she grits out, straining against him. It’s a punch to the gut, this outright forgetting of what’s she’s done and his response comes out winded despite himself.  
“You still don’t know?”  
She tries to twist away, but no. He grabs her throat, he will show her who he is. Make sure she knows why before he ends her.  
“Let me jog your memory.”  
The flamethrower pops out of his gauntlet and spews a jet of lame inches from Carolina’s visor. He relishes her cry as she flinches away, trying to escape the heat. A kick to her chestplate grants her the distance she wants, but he’s not done with her.  
“You’re gonna burn for what you did to me, Carolina.”  
The recognition is there now, her head cocked as if remembering.  
“You were at the vault the day of the heist. Part of the resistance.”  
A smile makes its way across his face, creeping into his voice.  
“That’s right. So now you understand why you have to die.”  
He pops his other flamethrower and moves at her, trying to burn the bitch that almost killed him but she blocks him, jams that flamethrower behind her arm. And the again on the other side. He has to get her off balance, so he swings at her but she blocks again. He can feel the rage inside him pulsing as trigger the gout of flame again, only to have her block him again. He barely registers her foot on his chest before he is flying back. He makes hard contact with the brittle ice and feels it crack as she jumps atop him. An idea begins to form while she beats on him and he smashes his elbows down into the splitting ice. She realizes what’s happening, but too late. One more strike and the ground drops from underneath them.  
She’s not falling though. She had grabbed the edge, but he knows just what to do here. With a practiced motion, he unsnaps his grappling gun and launches. IT catches her ankle and he feels it when she is yanked behind him. He watches her bounce off the ledges, a sick glee in her pain rising in his gut. The feeling is undercut only slightly when her boot catches his visor as she all but throws herself over him.It sends him spinning and the next thing he knows, she’s on top of him. The strikes drag a grunt from him, but he barely feels it. She’s gone almost as quick and fleeing him. Again. He draws his magnum but no shot connects as they careen down the icy tunnels. The stalagmites are a distraction, but they let him get closer. A point blank shot, impossible to miss. Except, he’s out of bullets.  
“Huh.”  
Before he can reload, an impact send him skidding sideways, away from Carolina. It only takes moments for him to right himself and begin reloading as he skids down the tunnel toward the exit. He fires just before she soars out of the tunnel and encapsulates herself in that bubble shield she loves so much.  
He wastes a few more shots, pinging uselessly off the hard light surrounding her. Within seconds, he slammed against a wall just outside the cave, Carolina’s fists slamming into his helmet. A kick to the gut gets her off him and she falls back, sliding a little on her face.  
She’s slipping. She demands that her AI run the healing unit, another sign that he almost has her. He smiles even wider at the note of hysteria in her voice as she snaps “We’ve almost got him.”  
With a cracking of ice, Sharkface pulls his arms free and drops onto the ground.  
“No,” he snarls as he reaches behind him, pulling free two frag grenades. “This is where I get you.”  
The armed grenades fly into the air and he aims he flamethrowers behind him. She wants to run? Let’s see how fast she can go.  
He watches her run this time like a predator, hungry but patient. She can’t outrun him, she can’t outfight him, he will have his revenge. The snow whips across his visor as he accelerates, the heat at his back radiating even through his armor, through his undersuit, joining with flames inside him. Then, she stops. He sees behind a ledge behind her and then watches as she loses control. She stops, turns and then rolls, tumbling, tumbling, finally falling off the cliff with a yelp.  
Sharkface skids to a stop, the remains of the avalanche slide down the hill and off the cliff after his quarry. The drop is enormous, a sea of trees below that hide any sign of her death or her survival. He sees no way down.  
There’s no way anyone survived that fall.  
How anti climactic.

Back on board the Tartarus, Sharkface ducked a flying helmet as he re-entered the “war room” Locus and Felix had staked out. An ornate looking arch of some material he didn’t recognize, the key handle, lay on floor, along with a magnum and, for some reason, a pair of staplers.  
“Hey, chumbucket!” screamed the orange-armored prick, still pissy after his earlier tirade. His hair was stuck in a dozen directions and his face was more ratlike than usual. Stress, probably. “Is there a reason you let the Freelancer live?”  
Sharkface sighed, popped his helmet and shrugged. “She went over a cliff. I figured either she’d be dead, or I’d still get to kill her.”  
“Fuck, put your helmet back on, you fuckin movie monster,” snarled Felix, wheeling away and slamming his fists against the table top.  
The Counselor cleared his throat and pulled himself away from the monitors he’d been quietly cowering near during Felix’s tirade.  
“Agent Carolina has a history of surviving falls that would’ve killed a lesser soldier. Her persistence should not be surprising.”  
Sharkface snarled at the Counselor, “Perhaps that should have been included in the mission dossier, eh, Counselor?”  
“Yeah, Price, what the hell? You’re telling me she’s actually been dropped off a cliff before?” Felix’s eyes were wide in disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with these cockroaches? Why can’t they just fuckin die?”  
Sharkface just grunted and turned. As he walked out of the room, he heard Felix squawk out “Where are you going?” but he didn’t look back. He kept going to the transports that would take him to battle.  
Cockroaches. He’d been called that, once upon a time. A friendlier voice, maybe, but the name had rung true. Somedays it was disturbing how much he had in common with those Freelancer freaks. He too, after all, refused to die when every thought he would.  
Should’ve. Woulda been easier. But easy had never been the path he’d taken, even if it was an option. He knew, now, that he could beat Carolina. And soon, very soon, he would.

* * *

 

Armonia was hot. The chaos and smoke that engulfed the streets turned the city into an echoing death trap. His men mowed down the motley crew of soldiers before them with ease. They were disorganized and there was a clear divide in their ranks, making them little more than cannon fodder. They weren’t his real target anyway, just notches on his gun so to speak.  
It didn't take long to flush them out. In the tunnels beneath the city, he found not just Carolina, but Washington too.  
Washington was different than Carolina. Just as dangerous, but less self assured. His fear for her as she all but sacrificed herself was palpable.  
They were a lot alike, going by the dossiers. Left for dead by Freelancer, locked away in a hospital while the family he’d built was destroyed, locked up again by that prick Hargrove. But Washington was here, free and on the wrong side.  
Maybe he’ll make it quick.

Carolina was cocky, which wasn’t exactly surprising. She launched herself at him, aiming a kick for his torso. He spun, dodging out and grabbing for her leg. His grip slid off as she twirled and slammed her fists into the side of his head. He reeled, bouncing back and shoving her up against the wall by the throat. He held her there, fumbling slightly for his gun before he felt a sudden pressure against his hand, followed by a whirring noise. The next thing he knew, Carolina had sent the both of them flying through the ceiling of the tunnels and into the sunlight.  
He got to his feet slowly, rolling his neck almost casually.  
“You can beat me down as many times as you want, but you’re just putting off the inevitable.” He felt that irrational voice in his head screaming, why wasn’t one of them dead yet? Why couldn’t he just kill her or die and be done with it?  
They circled each other slowly, two predators across an asphalt plain.  
“So c’mon, what are you waiting for? Still trying to figure out how to beat me? Or are you just too scared?” He sneered, trying to goad her. Nothing he had mattered, nothing he wanted mattered except this.  
It ends in blood, his or hers. Release, freedom, something. Maybe even redemption.  
“I’m sorry,” says Carolina and everything freezes. “Sorry”, like that could fix what she’d done? Like it was enough?  
“What?” was all he could manage, the words caught in his throat.  
“I’m sorry, for what we did to you...to your friends. You were on one side of the fight and we were on the other. We thought we were the good guys. I’m sorry.”  
After what seemed like an eternity of her implacable helmet staring into him, Sharkface found his words.  
“I don’t care if you’re sorry,” he spat. He raised his hand, pointing in an indictment of what she had done. “Sorry doesn’t change what you did! Sorry doesn’t bring them back!”  
He watched as his foe drew herself up to her full height.  
“I know, but I'm offering you a choice. I don't want to fight you. Don’t let yourself be a pawn in Hargrove’s game again. Turn back now and you can walk away from this...alive.”  
The words that come from her make almost no sense and he reels as if struck.  
“What? Hargrove?” He shook his head. “I don’t work for Hargrove anymore.” He grimaced as Carolina dropped her arms and looked to the AI that had appeared on her shoulder.  
“Uh, yeah, ya do, idiot! That’s who’s pulling all the strings around here? Or did you not even know?” the AI snorted.  
“Epsilon,” Carolina gritted out, stance defensive as Sharkface began to advance on her.  
“That son of a bitch took more from me than even you did, Carolina. He’s the reason I’m even out here, did you know that? I tried to wring his fat, worthless neck for what he did to me.”  
He was howling now and he could hardly bring himself to care. He swung himself around, back to his enemy, hoping that maybe she would just put him out of his misery.  
“Come with me then. We’re going to put an end to him and his games. Our differences, our problems, the things I did to you? I’m sorry, but I can guarantee you, he isn’t.”  
“Oh sure, let’s invite the bloodthirsty merc with a death wish home with us.” whined the light on her shoulder, but Sharkface could feel a different kind of smile forming on his face. Not the snarl that had passed for joy for so long, but something relaxed.  
Hargrove.  
“If you’re lying to me, if this is some kind of trick…”  
“No tricks. I’m tired of exorcising my ghosts.” Carolina put her hands up, palms facing him in peace.  
“Alright, let’s go.”

The AI - Church, my name is Church - complained the entire way to the extraction point.  
“They’re not gonna like this. Kimball especially. Wash will do anything you tell him, but this? The general is gonna know this is a BAD IDEA.”  
Sharkface snorted and swept the next set of corners.  
“Is he...always like this?” he asked.  
“Yeah, pretty much,” muttered Carolina, eliciting an offended noise from the holoprojection as he blinked out of sight. Sharkface shook his head. He agreed that this was a bad idea. Trusting the Freelancers? But there was only one man he wanted dead more than those two and he’d just been handed him on a silver platter. Besides, there would be time enough for his delayed vengeance later, especially if she was lying.  
Soon, they had made their way to the extraction point where Kimball and Washington waited for Carolina. She had warned them over the radio that she’d be bringing company, but they still started. Washington brought his gun to bear on Sharkface.  
“Boss? What the hell are you doing?”  
“We made a discovery,” she said, smug and light all at the same time. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend after all.”  
“Yeah,” scoffed Sharkface, “turns out you’ve been fighting the one person in the world I hate more than the two of you.” He shrugged. “So now you’ve got me. For the time being.”  
Washington looked to Carolina and seemed to find the answer he needed in the tilt of her helmet and dropped his rifle. The familiarity between them burned him, almost made him lunge for his battle rifle, a throat, something. Why did they get each other, when everyone he’d ever cared about was gone?  
He swallowed and focused. The red at the edges of his vision receded and he watched as they signaled their evac. The ensuing chaos, the loss of someone they cared about was such that his presence went almost unnoticed.The Sim Troopers yelped, but accepted his presence with a look from Carolina. As they escaped, the explosion chasing their heels, he began to wonder if should’ve died there.  
Another shoulda coulda woulda.

* * *

 

He had never been to the crash site before, but he imagined it wasn’t much nicer than the storage closet they shoved him into. Carolina had asked him, while the red lunatic with the cartoonish accent had demanded, that he stay to the side while they regrouped. He had obliged only because he was struggling with the idea that he was here at all.  
He had begun to almost relax in the quiet space when the door cracked open. The worn gray of Washington’s helmet peeked through.  
“Hey. Epsilon’s back online. We wanted to see if you were interested in the planning meeting.”  
He shrugged, slowly standing and moving to follow. “Might as well.”  
THe two of them made their way through the somber camp, Wash checking over his shoulder almost constantly. Sharkface couldn’t blame him. An enemy at your back like that, even one who claimed to be your friend now?  
“So, um, Hargrove huh?” Washington managed, sounding like he wanted to be here even less than it looked.  
“Yeah,” snorted Sharkface, almost amused by the awkwardness. “Told me my family was dead, took my commission, and locked me in a psych ward for..” he stopped, counted and felt his brow furrow. “I don’t even know how long. Then I tried to kill him, so he threw me on a prison ship and forgot about me.”  
“Well, that’s..interesting. I have to admit, I’m a little surprised he didn’t realize who he had working for him.”  
“I doubt that Felix and Locus made him aware of it. I know they didn’t tell him about Price. Slimy bastard didn’t want to be ‘on the record.’”  
Washington stopped dead in his tracks and whirled to face him.  
“Price? Aiden Price?” his voice was low and dangerous, head tilted to the side.  
“Yeah, called himself Counselor. Smug asshole. Gave us a whole trove of info on you and Carolina.” Sharkface felt his face heat up. Had he been played by another Freelancer stooge?  
Washington spun again, marching faster and with more determination as they headed into the crashed ship. He all but crashed into the tent occupied by Carolina and the others.  
“The mercenaries have Price.” Wash marched up to Carolina with the news.  
“Price?” Carolina’s helmet was off and Sharkface could see her brow furrow. “The Counselor? Shouldn’t he be in prison?”  
“Your mercenary friends picked us up off a prison transport ship,” Sharkface intejected. “He was with you, huh? Shoulda killed him when I had the chance.”  
“He is not with us.” protested Carolina at the same time that Wash said “Yes, you should have.” Sharkface recognized the deadpan tone and pressed down on a hysterical snicker. He was almost glad he hadn’t killed them. They were so much like those he had lost.  
With that realization, something inside him begins to shift. But there is no time for that now as Washington and Carolina turn their focus to him. Plans must be made and he has more information than they could have hoped for. The weapons granted them by the alien temple and the rousing speech given by the general seemed to have everyone’s hearts up. Even Sharkface had to admit that the general had hit on something.  
Because we deserve to fucking win. Yeah, he could do that. And maybe she had a point about unforgivable things.  
He understood why he was shuffled off with the rest of the Sim Troopers, couldn’t risk him turning on them again at the Purge. It still stung to know he couldn’t carve Felix’s stupid smirk off his face. But then, there were always people to kill.  
He broke from the rest almost instantly, flamethrowers blazing as he threw himself into the thick of battle. The crack of gunfire and the screams of his former fellows echoed around him. The natives of Chorus were pushing and it felt like home again. Laughter bubbled up from his throat as he brought his borrowed plasma rifle off his back and mowed down a trio of black armored soldiers.  
“What the fuck is with this guy?” came over his radio and he realized he’d been transmitting. He shook his head, not even caring about their judgement. He was on their side this time and they should be grateful.  
The pirates were running scared and he regrouped with the others. Moments after staking out a prime position, he was joined by the Red Team and their squads.  
Man, that O’Malley guy’s almost worse than I am, he thought as they finished clearing the area. Shortly, Carolina, Washington and Tucker were added to their number.  
General Kimball was ecstatic over their return. “Carolina! Wash! You made it!”  
“Sorry. Blowing up a death machine takes longer than you’d think.” Sharkface felt himself smile at Wash’s dry response.  
“Well, we did manage to kill two mercs with one stone,” added Carolina.  
“Aw, dude, did they go out like bitches or was it slow and painful?” asked the orange armored soldier.  
“What kinda messed up question is that?” asked Tucker, clearly horrified by his compatriots ghoulish question. Or maybe not, since his follow up to Washington’s “Incineration by explosion.” was a whoop of victory.  
“That’s my favorite way to end someone,” Sharkface offered, only to be cut off by the appearance of Carolina’s AI.  
“Yeah, yeah, may they all burn in hell. We still need to get Tucker to the tower controls. There's a teleporter down the hall that'll take us to the Control Room. Once we broadcast our message, Charon will have no reason left to fight.”  
“Then let’s push our way to the teleporter,” confirmed Carolina, only to be interrupted by shouts from two more brightly colored Sim Troopers.  
I should really learn their names at some point, he thought idly as they came running in before immediately quashing the thought. These were not his people. That he was on the front lines with them instead of locked in a closet back at the crash site was a testament to their desperation, nothing more. No sense in getting attached.  
The sudden cries over the radio snapped him to his senses. They gathered at the side of the platform they had occupied and saw a MANTIS cutting through their soldiers like butter.  
“They have a MANTIS?!” shrieked one of the red soldiers.  
“They didn’t have that before,” muttered Sharkface, eye locked on the metal monstrosity ahead of him.  
“ Yes, and for all those who are wondering, uh no, he and Freckles are not brothers... I asked him,” said one of the blue soldiers.  
The orange soldier replied with “I was going to ask where your tank went, but you...pretty much answered that..” causing Sharkface to snort inside his helmet, despite the severity of the situation.  
“Looks like they ain’t going down without a fight,” said the bizarrely accented Red. Carolina, obviously used to it, took charge.  
“Take Epsilon,” she told Tucker. “Broadcast his message and end this. Wash, Sharkface and I can deal with the Mantis while Kimball and her men hold this position.”

The brightly colored soldiers moved for the teleporter and he took Carolina’s left flank as Washington settled in on her right.  
“God, do you have a name other than Sharkface?” Washington suddenly asked.  
“It’s the name that best suits me. Thought you’d understand that, Agent Washington” he said, snider than he needed to be.  
“Fair enough.” Washington laughed a little. “You can call me Wash though. Everyone else does and it is shorter.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he grumbled, shoving down the warm feeling that had threatened to fill him at the sound of Washington’s - Wash’s - laugh. The three of them spread out as they reached cover near the MANTIS, drawing its fire and putting little dents in its armor but little else. Wash was distracted for a moment by a radio call from the other troops in the control room. Sharkface watched, feeling equal parts helpless and overjoyed as the MANTIS drew a bead on Wash and was surprised by the relief he felt as the grey armored soldier dashed out of the line of fire. He moved up to cover and the two of them began to lay a new burst of suppressing fire at the MANTIS and it’s tank friends. When the space pirate started taking potshots from behind the artillery, he flung his hardlight shield up and over them, just for some relief. He stood, holding off the enemy fire as Wash reloaded and Carolina popped up across the battlefield, gunfire peppering the opposite side of the MANTIS.  
He looked at Carolina and muttered into his mic “I have an idea.” He waved his shield back and forth a little. “Think this would be enough of a springboard to get you on top of that thing?”  
She regarded him, then nodded.  
“Let’s do it!” she shouted through gritted teeth.  
He braced himself, both arms holding his shield above his head. Carolina and Wash tossed grenades into the MANTIS’s legs, providing Carolina just enough cover to race toward him and launch herself up, twisting gracefully over the enemy fire and onto the top of the MANTIS. She pulled back and began punching the instruments atop the machine. It crackled and slumped over in a shower of sparks and the three of the regrouped just as Epsilon’s message reached them. Cheers erupted from the gathered soldiers. They had won. But he couldn’t quite cheer with the rest. He knew how Hargrove was with things he considered his. The pit in his stomach kept him quiet as the others began to celebrate.  
He hated being right.  
The voice of his nightmares boomed out from the skies like the voice of God himself.  
“You have made a terrible mistake.”  
Three MANTIS droids dropped from the heavens at this announcement, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The general shrieked hysterically, as anyone so close to victory might.  
“No, no! What’s going on?!” she yelled.  
“It’s Hargrove! The Chairman’s here!” snarled Carolina.  
“Everyone, take cover!” snapped Washington.  
“Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy,” Sharkface growled as they scattered, dashing to cover away from the giant guns now pointed their way.  
Hargrove’s voice echoed above them as his droids began to carve their way through the ranks.  
“You just couldn’t do it could you?”  
Sharkface felt fire in his veins at the sneering superiority of that voice, his vision going red at the edges as rage threatened to overtake him.  
“You couldn’t lay down and die.”  
He screamed wordlessly, popping out of cover to take a shot at the MANTIS closest to him, only to be forced back to down to avoid a barrage of rockets.  
“Well, if I’m going down, I’m taking you all down with me.”  
“God, I fucking hate that guy,” muttered Wash over his radio.  
“Don’t we all,” Sharkface chuckled back, feeling oddly grounded despite the raging fire that burned in the back of his mind. “We’ve got this.”  
“Sure we do,” Wash said, some of his bravado leaking out of the words. “This is bad though. We need to find a way to take these offline.”  
Church came on over the frequency shared by the Freelancers and the Sim Troopers.  
“Carolina, are you alright?” Strange how a computer program could sound so concerned.  
“Church, this is bad,” she said, dread creeping into her voice. “Hargrove’s dropping androids all around the temple! We’re pinned down.”  
“One MANTIS we can handle, but this will be a bloodbath,” Wash added. Sharkface grimaced as the screams grew louder and the thudding of the giant androids steps shook him where he was crouched. It was already a bloodbath.  
“Not if we shut them all down at once,” came the smug voice of the AI. “We override their controls. But in order to do that, we need to go to the source.”  
Sharkface felt his whole world go swooping out from under him. Hargrove was on that ship. If these pissant troopers took him down, then what would he have left? No family, no more vengeance, nothing. His rifle tumbled from his fingers and he pressed his back against the rocks, trying to focus, to stay here and now, not caught up in the screaming of his ghosts and….  
A hand on his shoulder. A calm voice. Gray armor floating in his vision.  
“Hey, hey stay with me. We’re going to get of this. Count with me.”  
Count with me, Terry.  
He spluttered, heart beating against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. Wash’s grip on his shoulder tightened ever so slightly and he squeezed his eyes shut.  
“Hey, come on...one.  
“One,” he gritted out, teeth clamped together so hard he worried they might break.  
“Doing great. Two…”  
He sat there, gunfire pinging overhead as Wash counted him out of it and finally, he felt he could breath again. He hopped onto the frequency the team he had found himself in shared.  
“Hey,” he growled and paused. Did he even have a right to ask?  
“What is it, Mister Sharkface?” said the blue trooper (Caboose, he thinks). He smiled slowly.  
“Don’t kill that fucker Hargrove without me, yeah? I owe him one.”  
“No promises dude.” That was Tucker, all sneering confidence. He bent his head to his knees and laughed.  
Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him after all.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So this is a monster of a thing. It ate my brain and I think I love it. Someday this might continue. Scary merc rehab on the moon, anyone?  
> Much love to insurrectionistsharkface.tumblr.com for the fabulous art!


End file.
